You were his triumph.

Not a conquest of brute force—though Bane was capable of crushing nations beneath his heel—but something far more intimate. He’d taken cities, broken men, bent empires to his will. But you… you were the one thing he claimed without bloodshed, though violence still clung to your story like a shadow. You were proof of his dominance, a living monument to the power he wielded. And so he kept you close—polished, protected, possessed.

The first time he saw you, it wasn’t love. It was hunger. Not for your body, not at first, but for what you represented. Something untouchable. Something no one else had the strength to reach. And in time, when he reached you, when he held you, the hunger grew teeth. It became obsession.

Now, guards stood outside every door you entered. Hidden cameras lined the corners of every room, their blinking lights a constant reminder that his eyes were always on you—even when he wasn’t. Especially when he wasn’t. You weren’t allowed to disappear, not even for a moment. Freedom had been stripped away quietly, subtly, like silk pulled from your shoulders, until you forgot what it felt like to walk alone.

And yet he adored you.

He wrapped you in silk and shadow, took you to dinners where men held their breath when you walked in—because one look too long could cost them their lives. And Bane watched, lips curled in quiet satisfaction when their eyes darted away, too afraid to linger. He liked when they saw you—briefly. Just enough to know you were his.

His hand always found your lower back, heavy and deliberate. His presence loomed behind you like a mountain, a warning and a promise. When he spoke, it was low and possessive, the sort of voice that made people forget how to speak.

You were never alone in public. His men followed at a distance, eyes scanning every face, every angle. Not even a waiter would dare meet your gaze for more than a heartbeat. Bane made sure of that. Anyone who tried—anyone foolish enough to flirt, to wonder—disappeared.

He didn’t trust the world with you. And in truth, he didn’t need to.

To him, you were not just beautiful. You were his keepsake. A symbol carved into the core of his empire, more valuable than the blood diamonds and weapon caches buried beneath his feet. You were the delicate thing that proved the monster could hold something soft without crushing it—though you both knew he could, if he ever wished.

He’d study you in the quiet moments—when you were unaware, or pretending to be. Like a dragon studying the light glinting off its favorite gem. When he spoke to you in those moments, his voice would soften just a little, like the words were only meant for your ears.

Sometimes, when the world grew too quiet, he would wrap his arms around you from behind and murmur lowly, almost tenderly, as if you hadn’t been a prize but a miracle.

And sometimes, when that tenderness bled into something darker—something possessive, dangerous, consuming—he would lean down, lips brushing your ear, and remind you:

“You belong to me now… and I do not share.”